


Estate of Blood and Trust

by Suzy_Queue



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Iffy consent (but not between Ian and Mickey), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rich Gallaghers (Shameless US)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-26 13:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30106827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzy_Queue/pseuds/Suzy_Queue
Summary: Mickey mows lawns for the Chicago elite. So what if he bends clients' trust to snag an iPad or a watch now and then?Ian spends evenings servicing Lip's business contacts.  He likes the security of his family's wealth, but he longs for romance and independence.When his landscaping firm gets hired at the family mansion, Mickey hatches a plan to rob them of everything they have.  Will he succeed, or will that annoying middle Gallagher screw up his plan?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 26
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey Milkovich couldn’t believe his dumb fuckin’ luck. He’d only mown the lawn of the Thompson place three times and she’d already handed over her garage access code. Normally it took months for him to build up that kind of trust.

Lucy Thompson stood in her driveway, kid on one hip, cellphone in her hand. “I cleaned out this whole corner, so you can put the stones there. You can put gloves and tools or whatever on this shelf. If you need to pee, the door’s open. Just close the garage on your way out.” She waved around the garage, pacing, talking without taking a breath. Her heels echoed on the sealed concrete floor, shinier than Mickey’s kitchen counter.

Mickey dealt with these people all the time. Women so distracted by their jobs or kids or fundraisers they barely looked at him. People used to telling others what to do, so overscheduled that meeting with the landscaper -- the person building the fucking retaining wall that will be on your property forever -- is too much of a disruption to even warrant eye contact.

She set her kid down and patted him on the bottom. Not a spank like Mickey had gotten from his father so many times, more a soft distracted pat to get the kid out of the way. “You need a spigot or anything? Like for a hose?”

Mickey lifted his chin, remembered to sneak a smile onto his face. “I probably will need that, ma’am.”

“Okay, it’s over there, other side of this window.” She patted her pants pocket, felt her head for the purple-lensed Bulgari Serpenti sunglasses, picked up an oversized Louis Vuitton purse. “You have my number in case there’s any problems. It’ll be done by Friday, right?”

Mickey did a quick calculation. Eight feet long, three feet high, nine-inch interlocking blocks, one day to pin and mark, one day to clean and finish. “That’s the plan. Can’t wait to finish it up for you.”

“Great.” Still no eye contact. No handshake. She grabbed her kid and got in her car, was gone before Mickey could fake a cheerful goodbye.

He saluted her with two fingers as her big-ass Explorer drove away. “Thanks for everything, Ms. Thompson.”

Mickey’s phone rang as soon as Lucy left the driveway. The call was from his boss, Elena Padilla, owner of Padilla Terra, landscaping and gardening for the Chicago elite.

Elena talked with non-nonsense enthusiasm. “The Windy City Lawn and Garden Expo is in a couple weeks. Say you’ll go with me.”

Mickey wiped his hand down his face as he crossed the yard. “I’d say no, but I’m betting you already bought the fuckin’ tickets.”

The last thing Mickey wanted to do was get more involved with Elena’s side of the business, client management and purchasing plants and meeting with vendors. Mickey was a decent landscaper. He could edge grass and plant crepe myrtles and shit. You had to do at least sixty percent of a good job or else you’d never be asked back. He’d kept this job for over two years, longer than any other job in his life, almost as long as his last stint in prison.

He was good with his hands, you know. Strong enough to use a hedge trimmer all afternoon without getting shaky arms. He could fix small engines, save Elena a few bucks here and there on repairs. As long as he kept his work gloves on to hide his knuckle tattoos, he looked respectable enough. Thing is, working on lawns gave him access to the ritziest houses in Chicago. Houses like Lucy fuckin’ Thompson’s.

"Think about it, okay? And don’t forget we’re meeting with a new client in South Barrington at the end of the week.” Elena would drag Mickey kicking and screaming into respectability if he didn’t watch out.

He shook off his boss’s cheerful vibes and got to work on Lucy’s damn wall.

* * *

Mickey entered the garage code at the end of his work day, around three o’clock. 071782. Typical, probably the lady’s birthday. It’s like she wanted her fuckin’ identity stolen. He’d have to text his brother with her info; Colin had a hard-on for stealing people’s lives.

The door ratcheted open and gave him access to the three-car garage. He’d never even had a garage; he was lucky to finally afford his own three-hundred square-foot apartment in Canaryville.

Mickey crossed the cavernous space and walked up two white steps – she was so rich she had goddamn stairs in her garage. He paused before turning the knob of the door that led inside, wondering if she actually did leave it unlocked, hoping she didn’t have an alarm she forgot to disable. Hoping some drooling dog wasn’t about to pounce on his chest. 

The doorknob turned. 

The door whooshed inside without a creak. 

Mickey was in.

Second best luck of the day, the place was a fuckin’ wreck. No pizza boxes or roaches but junk everywhere. Shoes, jackets, laundry piled on the couch. The smell of something flowery barely covered up stale diaper and desperation.

Messy people weren’t as likely to notice when something went missing. Something like the diamond tennis bracelet he’d taken from the Flanders house. Like the DeWalt power saw he’d swiped from the Brayborn estate. 

He passed through the kitchen, careful not to touch anything. He wasn’t there to trash the place. He had a balanced system, you know. Take one thing per family, only the one time. Balance it out with courtesy, flattery, and a decent hedge trimming. You had to pick something small, something they wouldn’t miss right away. 

Mickey spotted a watch on the living room coffee table, a shiny gold Rolex on top of a notepad. He carefully picked up the watch, weighed it in his hand to determine its heft. Fakes used cheaper metals and always felt lighter than they looked. A true Rolex would feel heavy and solid. He inspected the second hand to see if it had smooth, even motion. He listened to the ticking to make sure it was consistent. He checked the lens over the date to make sure it had the right bulge and magnification. Mickey whistled through his teeth. The watch was real, all right. Probably net him five hundred at least.

Mickey had a radar for knowing the right thing to grab, and the watch wasn’t speaking to him. Something about the way it had been placed told him he needed to leave it alone. He kept walking across the carpet. 

“Damn it.” He tripped on a squeaky toy on the floor. Privileged motherfuckers had so much shit they couldn’t even find a place to put it all. He couldn’t believe the perfectly sculpted property and pristine exterior held all this disorganized crap inside. Should have figured; he’d never met a North Sider whose inside was as pretty as their dumb façade.

In the corner of the living room, Mickey’s intuition tingled. He leaned over the white couch and spotted a basket with a billion electronics inside. A Chromebook on top. A Kindle. Last year’s Samsung phone, probably for the kids to play games because it was too outdated for Mom to actually still use. At the bottom of the basket was an iPad, smudged with fingerprints, inside a chunky rubber case. Last generation, but still new enough to snag a good price.

He glanced around the room for nanny cams, blinking red lights, any kind of surveillance equipment. Hell, Lucy couldn’t come up with a better password than her birthday. No way she’d have motion-detecting cameras installed.

Mickey slipped the iPad into his messenger bag and tiptoed away.

One day, he’d do it. One day he’d take every fuckin’ thing from some board member’s house. He’d take the jewel-encrusted eggs and the Lladró figurines and the first edition Moby Dicks. He’d clean the pâte out of the fridge and take the Kandinskys off the wall. He’d grab the keys to their Tesla and drive away with enough to set him up for good. Enough to get out of the city, out of Illinois, away from the memories of his father and his life of falling in and out of trouble. 

But for today, Junior’s iPad was a nice tip.

* * *

Ian Gallagher pulled his cuff links to stretch out a white shirt beneath his suit sleeves. He cracked his neck and leaned close to his older brother. “Who you got for me tonight?”

Lip stood in the ballroom of their estate sipping whiskey. Ice clinked in the bottom of his tumbler. “Rodney Deacon. Blue suit, by the canape station. I told you about him last week. He’s a partner at Keystone Capital. His first time here.”

Ian scanned the guests at the cocktail party. He listened to the murmur of conversation, identified most of the guests as CEOs or politicians he already knew. 

Ian found his target. He loved this moment, the first glimpse of the person he’d be seducing for the night. The man looked about ten years older than Ian, mid-thirties, stocky but relaxed with his movements. The guy turned to grab an appetizer, revealing a line-up shaved into the side of his buzz cut. Good, he wasn’t some shellac-haired killjoy like Lip’s normal investors. Ian liked the man’s cheek bones, his firm jaw and wide smile. He’d have fun with this one.

Ian checked his mental database for the information he’d memorized about Rodney. “Plays rugby in a rec league on weekends. Not married.”

“Loves his nephew. Strong as a mule.” Lip threw his arm around Ian, patted his shoulder with encouragement. “ _Junior_ partner. We could get a lot of years of loyalty.”

“More like him.” Ian smirked. “Less like Harold Schneider from the Christmas party.” 

“You know you loved the way his mustache tickled your balls.”

Ian mimed a gag reflex. “He was polite, though. Had a thing for feet.”

Lip laughed. “Take your meds?” 

“Always do.”

His brother turned to mingle with a woman from the development team, leaving Ian to his mission -- his mission to give Rodney “Rugby” Deacon an especially good memory of the Limax Labs cocktail party. To make sure he knew there were perks when you funded Lip’s newest video development and sharing app.

Ian brushed past casino owners and music producers. He knew each one’s name and gift preferences. Henry Yount who liked spiral-cut hams and fruit baskets. Jennifer Bartlett who liked dark chocolate and gift certificates to spas. Lip handled the management of his developers and the day-to-day operations of the business, but Ian had the mind for personal relations. The smell of their top-shelf cologne mingled with the cinnamon hardwood polish the maid had applied that afternoon. 

The _maid_.

The Gallagher family had a maid now. They had fine china and brass knobs on their beds. After struggling their whole lives in a tiny row house on the South Side, they finally had money to buy anything they wanted. Lip’s first app had sold for $47 million after a five-day bidding war, and he’d developed two more since.

Franny’s laughter caught Ian off-guard. His four-year-old niece ran across the ballroom with a ping pong paddle, squealing for her mom to catch up. His sister Debbie wasn’t far behind, sighing, wearing sweatpants and a camo shirt.

“Better get her before Lip sees you.” Ian gestured toward her worn slippers. “Can’t have the capitalists knowing real people live here.”

Debbie rolled her eyes and jogged after her daughter. “The envelope for the caterer is on the mantel. There’s tips for the wait staff, too. Don’t forget to pay them.” 

Debbie and Franny cut through the crowd, up a staircase that took them to their wing. Each of his siblings had a goddamn wing of this house. Lip could have bought them each their own place, but with Carl and Liam still in school, with everyone helping to raise Franny, with Ian so involved in Lip’s affairs, they figured why not stay under one roof. Truth was, Ian wouldn’t know what to do without them all together driving him insane. Without them stealing his toothpaste. Without them messing up his Spotify playlists and kicking the crap out of him at Monopoly. 

Ian stepped around the string quartet to face his mark. He paused to admire the view before speaking up. “Rodney, right?”

The man beamed, his eyes immediately showing interest. “You’re Ian. Lip said you might be here tonight.”

Ian squared his shoulders, primed like he was going on stage, preparing for the thing he was better at than anyone else. The thing that technically wasn’t a job but brought their family the security of bonus income, a leg up on competing technology firms.

He rested his hand on the small of Rodney’s back. He felt the man’s muscles tighten under his fingertips. Ian knew exactly where to touch to send a clear message. “It’s quieter in the billiards room. Up for a game?”

* * *

The white fabric of Ian’s curtain fluttered in the moonlight. Mid-April, and it was already warm enough to have the air conditioning on. Ian wondered why they didn’t open a window like they would have done on Wallace Street. He wondered a lot of things these days but never said them out loud. Like how he was supposed to sleep when it was so dark and quiet outside.

Rodney Deacon’s arm lay across Ian’s chest, rising and falling with each breath. The sex had been nice. Rodney was nimble and playful, a damn sea lion. He didn’t reek of self-loathing like some of Lip’s guys. Maybe he’d become a regular, drop by more often. Maybe he’d see Ian during the day, ask him out on a date to a restaurant with three forks and little sherbets between each course to cleanse your palette.

Yeah, and maybe Carl’s hunting bow would sprout tentacles and swim across Lake Michigan.

Ian sighed. Rodney would never date him. He’d politely nod if he ever saw Ian in public, a hint of acknowledgement but no real connection.

Ian pushed hope away and focused on reality. When you’ve got a good thing going, you don’t beg for more. His family had money. They had food and healthcare and fucking stability. He didn’t have to stock shelves or sell drugs. He could spend his days cooking, shopping, working out, and his nights helping Lip. 

Love didn’t fit into the equation. 

It couldn’t. Ian wouldn’t allow it to.


	2. Chapter 2

“Jesus, El. Who the fuck lives here, the goddamn Queen of England?” Mickey leaned out the window of the Padilla Terra company pickup to get a better view of the property before him. The address was a single digit, a big fucking number seven mounted on a column.

“I know, right?” Elena opened her eyes wide. “Three full acres in the heart of South Barrington. One of them wooded. I hope you like hedges because they have a ton.” She rested her arm out the driver’s side window, waiting for a response from the security console. Her unruly dark brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. She wore a plaid shirt and jeans, tasteful enough to make a good first impression but gritty enough to prove she still got her hands dirty. 

Of course a house this big would have a damn iron gate, a brick tower with a video screen on it where you get buzzed in. Mickey had seen systems like this before. The family would have rotating shifts of dedicated security staff. The team would get to know everyone who came in, learn who belonged and who didn’t. 

The monitor crackled to life. “Good morning.” A woman with a dark vest and stern features talked on the black-and-white screen.

“I’m Elena Padilla, the landscaper. Here with Mickey Milkovich to meet with Deborah Gallagher.” 

“You’re on the list. Please face the camera for a snapshot.” After getting the security protocol out of the way, a deep buzz sounded, and the gate began its slow sweep open.

“Check out those Japanese Maples.” Elena smacked Mickey’s arm. “There’s an actual topiary garden. I have never worked on one of those.” Typical El, more interested in the trees and goddamn shrubbery than the people who lived there.

Places like this nauseated Mickey. The estate was half an hour from where he lived in Canaryville, but it might as well have been on Jupiter. “Who needs five-car garage? What do they have, like four buildings? That fuckin’ fountain probably cost enough to feed all the kids in my neighborhood for a year.”

“If it gives me access to those viburnums, I’ll take it. Do you know they have a Newton tree? A literal apple tree grafted from the same one where they discovered gravity.” Elena parked, gathered her clipboard and spec sheet. She didn’t glare at Mickey. She didn’t warn him to watch his language or remind him to cover up his tattoos. He’d been going on jobs with her the whole two years, and she never apologized for him. She treated him like he mattered. Made him feel like they were a couple of friends having a picnic on a sunny spring morning.

But Mickey couldn’t forget the truth. He was an ex-con and she was a business owner. He’d go home to a hot plate and a twin bed, and she’d eat a fresh-cooked meal with Raul, her perfect musician husband. Still, her ease with Mickey almost made him want to stay on a positive path. Almost.

Christ, even the air in South Barrington smelled clean. He hated it.

Mickey and El were greeted on the stone circular driveway by a woman younger than him with long red hair.

“Ms. Gallagher.” El shook her hand, nodded. “I’m Elena Padilla. This is Mickey.”

“Debbie.” The woman wore a bathrobe with tiny strings fraying off the belt. Her fingernails were unpolished, uneven, like she chewed on them. Not a bit of makeup on her. She looked like someone Mickey could have grown up with, if not for the 15,000 square foot mansion looming behind her.

“We basically need everything. Mowing, tending the gardens, planting new stuff, cleaning up neglected areas. We agreed on twice a week, right?” The Gallagher lady looked around like she didn’t know what to do with so much land.

Elena nodded. “Yes, ma’am, with an option to come more as needed.”

Mickey kept his mouth shut as they toured the property. The more he saw of the place, the deeper his eyebrows furrowed. A fuckin’ gazebo and marble sculptures in the yard? A grand piano in the front room window? A cascading chandelier over the front door with about a hundred bulbs? No human alive needed all this shit.

Elena stopped as they passed through a gate into a terraced garden at the back of the house. The ground had craters and mounds of clumpy soil tinged with black burn marks. She laughed. “What happened here?” 

“Yeah, um.” Debbie Gallagher squinted in apology. “Carl tried to nuke some fire ants with gasoline. You can fix that, right?”

The longer they walked, the harder it was to ignore, that calm comfort Mickey got when a decision was bubbling. Would this be his final hit? Was this the family that would sponsor his retirement to El Paso? He hadn’t been inside, but he guessed there were enough vintage guitars and cutting-edge laptops to snag him a small fortune. The place was so big, he’d probably only have to hit a couple of rooms to get enough to meet his goal. He only needed a few more thousand before he hit forty, the amount he determined would give him enough to start a new life.

Mickey caught Elena’s eye, and she indicated it was time for them to start. That shit-eating grin told him she couldn’t wait to try out their zero-turn mower. Dammit, El. Her fuckin’ rays of sunshine were the only thing holding him back. When he robbed the place and took off forever, her business would implode. Might never recover. For once, Mickey had someone he didn’t want to disappoint.

* * *

Ian dried his ears with the corner of a towel as he entered the kitchen. His morning run left him starving, and he had a ton of errands to knock out that day. First order of business was to make breakfast for his family.

The marble-topped island had enough stools to seat every one of his siblings. Carl sat at the end reading _Guns and Ammo_ before he headed to high school. Lip drank coffee from a gold-rimmed mug while he checked email. His youngest brother Liam sat with Franny, waiting to be fed. There was even a stool at the end for when Fiona visited from Miami.

“Where’s Deb?” Ian sliced fruit while bagels toasted. 

Lip had offered to hire an in-house chef. All it would take was one word from Ian and Lip would get someone in there within a week. Ian wasn’t ready for that, though. He liked preparing their meals and making sure the family’s favorite snacks were always on hand. Added some warmth to the sterile kitchen.

“Meeting with the new lawn people.” Liam tilted his head toward the window. At age ten, he wasn’t that much older than Franny, but he helped with her care as much as the other siblings.

“Hope they’re better than the last guy.” Ian checked the white board mounted next to the refrigerator. Made him smile that they kept the same chore chart they’d always had. Only now, the to-do list was things like “Meet with Liam’s private tutor” and “Get Ian fitted for tux.” Tasks like “stock up on condoms” didn’t make it onto the board, but they were equally important to the family’s well-being.

Lip slid his paperwork and laptop into a briefcase. “You going shopping today? Limes on the list?”

“Yep.”

Like Gallaghers had ever needed fresh citrus in their booze before. Lip liked to garnish his Moscow Mules, put cranberries in his vodka, embrace his hipster side. “Wednesday’s the thing with Senator Scott. Just a couple of drinks. You know.”

Ian knew. The evening would start quiet, with Lip, Ian, and Charles Scott enjoying cigars in the den. It would end with choking and a few more bruises than Ian had the day before. Senator Scott liked it rough, creative. He was the most challenging man in Ian’s rotation, never satisfied with the same experience twice. Ian hadn’t yet found a line Senator Scott wouldn’t cross.

“Got it. Wife coming this time or no?”

Lip shook his head. “She’ll be in Wisconsin. You can have all the fun you want.”

“Gross.” Carl threw a napkin at Ian, but his action had no bite. They’d been through too much as a family to keep secrets from each other. 

Ian worked to finish breakfast for the family. He made lunches for Carl and Liam, finished the grocery list for the day. Lip topped off his thermos with coffee, ready to head to work. Carl gathered his things to drive himself and Liam to school. Ian scooped up Franny to take her to story time at the library while Debbie managed the house’s work staff. 

The family moved around each other with practiced efficiency, a well-oiled and interconnected machine.

* * *

Mickey rounded the corner of a three-story literal tower on the Gallagher mansion with a gas trimmer strapped to his back. He neared the driveway, and the door on the garage bay closest to him raised.

A shimmering silver 488 Pista pulled out like a shot, its low frame nearly scraping the cobblestone driveway. _You gotta be shittin’ me._ That was the most powerful Ferrari to date, and Mickey never thought he’d see one with his own eyes. The driver had sandy brown curls and a pinched face like his brain was three staff meetings ahead of his body.

Mickey turned back to begin his work as a second car pulled out, a black SUV. At least this one was a Toyota, something he saw every day. He didn’t catch the driver’s face, only a flash of red hair as he pulled away, a glimpse of a purple car seat in the back.

Right as Mickey reached for the pull cord to start the trimmer, a third car left the garage. Jesus, how many of these smug assholes were there?

Mickey’s hand froze on the starter handle. He recognized the car the second its grille peeked out of the bay. The carbon-black wheels, the air-induction hood, the LED headlamps. A motherfuckin’ Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat. The car Mickey dreamed of owning ever since it had debuted. Fastest sedan on the road, flared fenders, six-piston front calipers. The silver logo mocked him with its feral, toothy grin.

Mickey struggled to breathe.

The dark-haired kid driving couldn’t be more than seventeen years old. He rested his hand on the wheel with a loose grip, totally unaffected by the beast’s power. No way a kid like that could handle this legend. The fucker grinned as he rolled away with a kid in tow. 

Mickey seethed. The trimmer roared to life in his hands. The purring of its motor matched the thrill rising in his chest. 

The Hellcat belonged to _him_. 

If he had any doubt before, it faded away faster than the Gallaghers’ exhaust.

Everything that family owned would be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read! :)
> 
> Moodboard for this chapter can be found here:  
> <https://suzy-queued.tumblr.com/post/646090591510396928/chapter-two-of-estate-of-blood-and-trust-is-up>


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a dark chapter for Ian. I am posting chapter 4 also. :)

“Oh, god, have curly fries always tasted this fucking good?” Mickey moaned and licked grease off his fingers.

“What’s got you so bothered?” His brother Iggy sat across from him in a corner booth at Garcia’s Tap, their neighborhood dive bar.

“I found our golden goose, man.”

Iggy blinked.

“Our cash cow. My ticket out of here.”

“Nice. Spill.”

Nothing could bring Mickey down from his high. Not Iggy’s unwashed hair and stained tank top. Not the overplayed seventies rock on the loudspeakers or the stench of burned onions. Not even the memory of his dad stabbing his hand to that same table to teach him a lesson about how a flush always beats a three of a kind. 

Mickey leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It’s perfect. Huge rich family, like a dozen of those fuckers running around.”

“They got a weapons room? Any AKs?”

“Haven’t been inside.” Yet. “Gotta play this one right. Security is really tight. Can’t get in there without laying some pretty deep groundwork.”

Iggy was a couple of years older than Mickey and made no effort to walk the respectable line. He’d never gone to school or had a career, just ran odd jobs with neighborhood thugs. “They like — what, real estate developers?”

“Nah, tech nonsense. Limax Labs or some shit.”

Iggy spit his Yuengling across the table. “Fuckin’ — ” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You mean the Gallaghers? You seriously want to hit Lip Gallagher?”

“You heard of him?”

“He’s one of the richest dudes in Chicago. We can’t just walk in there and — Jesus, Mickey.” Iggy looked incredulous. “You’re insane.”

“They’ve got a Hellcat.” Mickey thought that alone should convince anyone.

“They’re from here.”

“I know that, dipshit. They live fifteen miles away.”

Iggy widened his eyes. “ _Here_ here. Like two blocks over.”

No way. Mickey would have heard about it if a family from his neighborhood fell into that kind of money.

“I swear to God. Must have happened when . . . yeah, you were in the joint. Dude did some kind of internet shit and sold it for a fuckton of cash.”

Mickey liked the sound of this more with each bit he learned. “Then they should be happy to share their damn Steinway with a couple of South Siders.”

Iggy inhaled deeply, not convinced.

“Look, I’ll let you know once I’ve figured out their fuckin’ little league schedules and book club meetings. When they’ve given me access to the house and they won’t suspect anything.” His insides felt light imagining the look on Iggy’s face when he raised the gate of the moving van and saw they were knee-deep in pawnable merchandise. When he crossed the Texas border with enough cash to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Because one more Chicago winter pretending to be an upstanding citizen, one more year playing straight and narrow would suffocate him.

“You got brass ones, man.” Iggy slapped the table. “Our year, huh? Let’s celebrate this shit.” 

* * *

After a mediocre slice of peach pie ala mode, Iggy patted his pockets. “I got a packet of — let’s see — you want weed or blow?”

Mickey smiled. “Nah. Gotta stay sharp. Gotta clip those Gallagher hedges in the morning. Need to see if they leave a spare key under a little rock in the garden.”

“Then let’s dip our wicks, man.” Iggy took a drag from his hand-rolled cigarette. “Tube Top over there’s been eyeing you all night.”

Mickey didn’t look where Iggy indicated. He didn’t have to. He knew he wasn’t interested. “You take her, man.”

“I’ll see if she’s got a sister. Big, the way you like ’em.”

Mickey had navigated these waters so many times, but they always made his teeth clench. Made his back muscles tighten, triggered his paranoia like Dad might climb out of the grave and drop an undead woman in the middle of the bar for Mickey to screw.

Mickey didn’t want Tube Top. He didn’t want Tube Top’s big sister. He didn’t want a neighborhood girl or a Russian prostitute or anyone else his dad had tried to force on him.

“Next round’s on me.” Mickey walked to the bar and sat on a stool in front of Quinn, a thin woman in a ripped shirt with a nose ring. Toughest bartender there. 

He raised his chin to get her attention. “Iggy wants another beer.” He inched closer to the bar, keeping his voice even and clear. “And I’ll, uh, have a Flaming Penguin.”

Quinn nodded in acknowledgement. “One Yuengling and one ... _Penguin_ ... coming right up.” She grabbed her phone and sent a short text. She pulled a beer bottle from the cooler and chucked the cap. She set a shot glass on the bar and filled it with tap water. 

The Flaming Penguin wasn’t a real drink. Quinn had a full menu of secret drinks that patrons could use to cry for help. Chicks ordered the Purple Luck Dragon when dudes wanted in their pants and they needed someone to intervene in a way the douchebag won’t notice. You could order a Green Jade when you needed Quinn to call your phone to get you out of a bad date.

Mickey had worked out the “Penguin” with Quinn back when his father was still alive, after she saw the bruises and anger he carried. Mickey knew as soon as he ordered, she sent a message to one of her roommates. Any minute now, he’d be rescued.

“Yo, Mick, two o’clock.” Iggy clapped his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. His hair fell across his face as he fumbled to gain balance. “Mini-skirt came in is totally eyebanging you.”

Mickey closed his eyes and prayed thanks to Quinn and her motherfuckin’ gaggle of roommates. He put on a lascivious face and slid off the stool. “Guess I know who I’m fuckin’ tonight.” He crossed the floor and put his arm around the new girl, a short brunette. “Wanna get out of here?”

She shrugged, kissed him on the cheek. Iggy leered in approval as Mickey led her out a side door. 

They made it half a block into the cool back alley, far enough that curious eyes from Garcia’s could no longer see them.

Quinn’s roommate pulled out from beneath Mickey’s arm. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Mickey struggled with how to tell her he appreciated what she did. “Hey, I really ...”

“It’s cool. Now go have some fun.” She disappeared up a side staircase back to her second-floor apartment.

Mickey did feel like celebrating. Iggy’s plan to get laid was a damn good one. Mickey crept further down the shadows of the alley to find the type of fun he wanted.

* * *

Two hours into the night, and Ian Gallagher still hadn’t found Senator Scott’s breaking point. He sat on the edge of his king-sized bed wearing nothing but a necktie. The politician would be out of the bathroom any second, then Ian would have to invent something clever for round three. He scanned the debris on his floor, the trench coats and scarves and hot wax. He could do better than that.

The bathroom light clicked off. Ian gulped.

Charles Scott wasn’t a bad-looking man. He stayed well-groomed in all the important places. He tanned easily and had swimmer’s muscles, a good look on a man in his mid-fifties. The years of working the state senate hadn’t completely removed the happiness from his face. Charles looked like he was on the verge of smiling at any time.

Ian lounged across his comforter, equally satisfied and intimidated. He liked peeling away people’s layers to see what made them tick. A man’s taste in bed revealed his most raw and natural state.

Senator Scott’s inner self was a goddamn mongoose.

Ian licked a drop of blood on his lip left over from round one. “Have you ever tried ... an egg beater?” He pressed the trigger on the appliance he’d pulled from the folds of the bed. The beaters whirred to life. He expected a laugh. No way they’d actually use that thing; where would they even put it? 

Instead, the politician clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He gently stroked his own cock which stood at full attention, tapping against his navel. The glow from the nightstand lamp caught the underside of his chin and nose, making his features cadaverous. He shook his other closed fist, rattling its contents. “No more toys. Just bodies this time.”

The senator unfurled his fingers and revealed two pastel-colored pills. 

Ian’s face fell. The wrong combination of substances would fuck up his body for days. He fought to stay calm. Lip needed this, needed Ian to be persuasive. The senate would be voting on a net neutrality bill next month that would make or break their company’s next app. 

Charles Scott stepped closer. “Open.”

Composure. Steadiness. Fuckin’ _control_. Ian could do this; he could give a brilliant performance and bend Charles to his will with a little molly in his system. He had to.

Ian opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, accepting the gift.

The senator curled his fingers around Ian’s arm as he swallowed his own pill. He whispered into Ian’s ear. “Now we play by my rules.”

* * *

Mickey felt the alley wall press into his back. Even through his tank top and flannel shirt, the bricks cooled his skin. His jeans and boxers bunched around his ankles. A mess of brown hair moved down his body as some fuckin’ guy licked the underside of his cock.

The sound of cars on Halsted Street echoed through the alley. Their headlights played across the opposite wall in a soothing rhythm. 

When Mickey finally raised enough money to move to El Paso, he’d do this every goddamn night. Find any random pool boy he wanted and fuck ’til the roosters crowed. No strings, no repeat visits, just warm mouths and enough dick to keep him permanently stretched.

Mickey pushed the man’s head lower. “Fuck, yeah.” He shifted his hips, pressing himself into the man’s mouth. Mickey closed his eyes and let the feel of lips and tongue smother him. 

He imagined the growl of the Gallagher Hellcat, the rev when he’d step on the gas. His cock twitched and he rolled his head back with pleasure.

Elena’s face popped into his mind, and he swiped her aside like he was switching screens on his phone. Guilt could stay the fuck away tonight.

The face of Terry Milkovich flashed up next. Mickey knew from experience his dad’s face couldn’t be scrubbed so easily. Only thing that would make him fade was time and distance. Mickey hoped ghosts stayed tied to places and not people. He couldn’t let that motherfucker follow him to Texas.

The man at his feet traced his fingertips along Mickey’s balls and gave them a tug. Saliva washed over his hand. He attacked Mickey’s cock with increasing suction, lips swollen and soft.

“Christ, now.” Mickey came hard down the man’s throat with visions of jewelry and guns splashed across his mind. His knees buckled, and he caught himself before he collapsed down the wall. 

Could life get any fuckin’ sweeter?

* * *

Ian couldn’t tell if he lay on his bed or beneath it. He felt rocking, heard a swoosh in his ear like ocean waves. He tried to open his eyes but saw only blurs of yellow light.

He scrambled to find a horizon, feel anything familiar like his own hands or feet. All he felt was the burn of flesh chafing from too much friction in strange places. All he tasted was chalk.

Dull pockets of anger bounced inside his head. One shaped like Lip. One shaped like his echoey sterile house. One shaped like the man before him who stretched his boundaries too thin. All the affirmations he told himself were bullshit. Nothing about this was fun.

Ian struggled to talk. “Pepp—” The world bubbled but wouldn’t emerge.

“Pepper—” All he had to say was _pepperjack_ , their safe word, and everything would end.

He steeled himself, struggling to regain clarity. He latched onto moments of pleasure, the tight squeeze of Senator Scott’s ass around his cock. He murmured, stubbornly seeking release.

He thrust violently then went soft. He heard grunting, felt pinpricks of fingernails gripping his legs. 

He tried once more to ground himself in reality before he collapsed onto his pillow. 

Darkness swallowed him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood board/image for this chapter here! <https://suzy-queued.tumblr.com/post/646369428802519040/chapter-3-of-estate-of-blood-and-trust-is-up-now>


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday morning fog burned off the Gallagher front lawn as the sun peeked over the horizon. Mickey whistled as he crossed the yard so goddamn early that dew clung to his boots. He didn’t even need coffee; he’d woken up ready to jump headfirst into his plan. 

Mickey spotted a soccer ball by an oak tree. One of the younger kids must play soccer. Hellcat driver probably takes ’em to practice. Or maybe ponytail lady, unless she’s a stay-at-home type. Fuck it, he’d have to make a chart to keep track of all the members of this family. 

He hopped down a set of rock stairs lined with ivy. As he descended, he glanced in the large windows of the detached garden house. The Gallaghers had so much money their fuckin’ shed had a whole second story bigger than his apartment. Didn’t look like there was much in there. Maybe he could use that as a hideout or storage place. He had a ton of options on this property.

He pushed open the screen door of the garden house. He needed a wheelbarrow, a hoe. El said he could check the family’s supplies to see what he could use. 

Mickey jumped. “Christ on a cracker.”

A fuckin’ Gallagher stood in the shadows with all kinds of mess in his arm. Not the head guy. Not the teenager. Must have been the middle one, the Toyota driver. Mickey gained his composure. “Didn’t see you there.” He was in too good a mood to add the word “sir.”

Mickey flipped a switch and a series of halogen lamps buzzed to life overhead. The room was spotless. What kind of garden shed didn’t have soil and seeds, fucking gravel everywhere? Shelves spanned every wall, with unopened bags of fertilizer, work gloves of different sizes, sprayers, trowels. “Man, this stuff has never been used. Still has price tags on it.”

The lanky-ass redhead tossed his armload of stuff onto the potting bench in the middle of the room. His head twitched a little like he was coming out of a daydream. “Last guy didn’t really know what he was doing. Liked the supplies better than the actual work.”

As Mickey reached for a rake, a flash of red caught his eye. Not the dark red of the dude’s hair. _Red_ red. Bright. He’d seen enough fresh blood to recognize it immediately.

This new Gallagher suddenly got a lot more interesting.

Mickey panned upward, needing to get a quick read on what flavor of fuckery was going down.

The pile on the table was a set of crisp white sheets. It lay jumbled like a hobo sack, cradling a bunch of stuff inside. Blood streaked in patches across the fabric. Not splattered from a gunshot or knife wound, smudged like finger paint. Tattered pieces of clothing spilled from the cloth. Wood of a broken baseball bat. More than one used condom.

Hovering above the debris, the dude’s hand shook slightly, pinky grazing the sheet. The shaking hand connected to a sinewy arm with fine red hairs and freckles. A finger-shaped bruise and a fresh hickey peeked from the neck of his blue t-shirt. The dude chewed on the inside of his cheek. His hair stood at odd angles like he’d had it carefully gelled and then stuck his finger in a light socket.

“Hey, man, you okay? Need help?”

The guy raised a five-gallon plastic gas canister and set it next to his junk pile. “Got a light?”

Didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Some kinky fun had happened, and this Gallagher needed the evidence erased. Mickey handed over his Zippo. “You got a goddamn Dumpster out back. Just throw it away.”

Gallagher accepted the lighter. “They go through the trash. Paparazzi, bloggers. Girls Lip bangs and leaves.”

Dude had some balls, man, parading his party favors in front of Mickey. Besides acting a little spooked, he made no attempt to hide anything.

Mickey licked his lip. This was definitely his favorite Gallagher.

Must have been the way the warm breeze came off the lake that morning. Maybe the good head Mickey had gotten the night before, leaving him weak-kneed. Hell, maybe Venus was rising. He felt untouchable, so he pressed his luck.

“So, uh, funny thing.” Mickey stepped closer to the table. “I saw a big town car pulling out when I was at the gate. Had a single-digit license plate, said ‘Official Senate’ or some shit. Window was down, saw a grumpy old man driving. I snapped a couple of pics to be sure.” 

Gallagher ran his right hand, his steady hand, through his hair. He closed his eyes like he’d put up with more crap in the past five minutes than most people did all year. He glared at Mickey. “What do you want? Money? Five minutes of Lip’s time?”

Mickey’s insides were fireworks. Wasn’t even noon and his favorite Gallagher was right where he belonged, under Mickey’s thumb. He didn’t need the douchebag’s money. By summer, he’d possess everything the guy ever owned.

Mickey tried his best not to smile. “I want ...” He pressed his palms onto the slats of the table. His posture conveyed everything he didn’t need to say. 

_You don’t get to fire me._

_You don’t get to talk shit about me to your family._

_You can’t threaten me or treat me like I don’t matter._

Mickey looked him straight in the eye. “I want you to owe me.”

#

Ian had enough to deal with, and now he added “asshole groundskeeper” to his list. He knew it was a risk burning his stuff during the day when other people were around, but he’d wanted to get it done the second Senator Scott left. The sooner he cleansed himself of last night, the better.

It was his own careless fault, trusting people too much. Lip and Debbie did a background check on every worker they hired — the maid, wait staff for parties, the security team. Every one of them treated Ian with the same understanding. They made a silent promise to stay out of his way and keep their eyes to themselves. Ian treated them kindly, and they repaid him with dull objectivity. A little bit of small talk here and there, a laugh about the Cubs score. Everyone did their job and went on their way.

This new guy showed his true colors immediately. Ian would deal with it like he dealt with everything else. He’d gotten a documentary filmmaker access to an Italian diplomat. He’d imported a Hermes handbag from Asia for a venture capitalist. A mouthy gardener he could deal with.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ian’s exhaustion clouded his focus. “The hell does that even mean?” 

The gardener grinned in defiance. What made him so damn superior? Ian had seen right away the man was hot. How could he not? He’d swaggered in there looking like he fucking owned the place with soft black hair and muscular shoulders. A tattoo spread across his smooth forearm, inviting further exploration into a dark back story. He’d ripped the sleeves off his shirt like no job could contain him. The patch on his left breast read “Milkovich.” 

Ian had seen all kinds of bodies, and he knew crazy could come in any shape and size.

He’d pegged this guy as a thug who had barely enough brains to learn a trade and break out of his cycle of poverty and abuse. Ian wouldn’t begrudge people like that a chance to have a job. That didn’t mean he had to like them.

The longer they stood there, the more Ian doubted his impressions. Milkovich was a goddamn hyena, circling his prey with purpose and laughing about it.

“Simple. Nothing to worry about.” The gardener stepped back, crossed his arms. “When I say jump, you put on your Nikes and grab me the fuckin’ moon.” He talked casually, like they were chewing over the traffic on I-55 or whether it would rain that afternoon. “Don’t know when, but whenever I’m ready ... you’ll owe me.”

A ray of sunlight highlighted the blue of the man’s eyes. These weren’t the eyes of a humble worker trying to get an honest day’s pay. They had intelligence behind them. Playfulness. They confronted him.

Ian never backed down from a challenge. He’d survived his whole life by being resourceful and tenacious. He’d play this fucker’s game. He’d play so hard the gardener would wish he’d never engaged.

Milkovich pointed toward Ian’s hand, the one holding the lighter. “You do what you gotta do, chief. I’ll get that from you whenever you’re done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read! View the art here:
> 
> <https://suzy-queued.tumblr.com/post/646369809279451136/annnnnd-heres-the-art-for-chapter-4>


	5. Chapter 5

Ian washed the ash residue from his hands in the bar sink near the den. He dug himself into dark holes with physical acts; physical acts of atonement led him back to stable ground. Acts like stripping the sheets from his bed. Like untangling the playthings in his room and putting every item back in its rightful place. Like burning everything the senator stained. With each task, he grew happier, felt more at peace.

He rinsed soap suds off his fingers, shedding yesterday as completely as he could. He put his hand in his pocket, finding the silver lighter belonging to the gardener. Milkovich wouldn’t be easy to wash away.

Debbie marched into the den. “You’ve already had two hours of screen time. We’re playing blocks.” Her worn gray loungewear made the ten-foot-high mullioned windows behind her look ridiculous and ostentatious.

Franny crossed her arms and stomped into the doorway. “T.V.”

“Blocks.” Debbie pulled two oversized Tupperware containers from a low shelf. She removed the lids and dumped colored blocks onto the rug. “Now.”

Franny huffed and sank to the floor.

Ian saw a lot of Debbie in her daughter. He was only a couple years older than his sister, but he remembered her being equally feisty at Franny’s age. 

He clicked off the lights over the bar. “Debs, I can watch her for a while if you need some time.”

His sister brightened immediately. “God, yes. Amber says she can’t power-wash the deck the same day the roofers come because she used to date the foreman’s cousin. But I can’t move her to Tuesday because Carl’s having that archery party, and he wants to gather his friends on the deck. And Franny’s shots are due, and — ”

“I got it. I got her. You go schedule.”

Ian’s fingers continued to brush the lighter in his pocket. Each smooth pass of his thumb across the cover invoked an image of blue sunlit eyes, of an arm tattoo he couldn’t quite read.

He sat by Franny and began to build a tower. “Hey, the new groundskeepers ... you vetted them, right?”

Debbie pursed her lips. “What did she do? Did she come on to you? Do I need to crack her skull?”

“Not her. The guy.”

“Mickey?”

So the pain in his ass was named Mickey.

Debbie’s face pinched as she thought. “I mean, he did time for a while but he’s through with parole now. Elena vouched for him, says she’s his best guy.”

Ian’s phone chimed. He glanced quickly to see the preview of a text from an unknown number.

**Unknown [10:47 AM]: Hi, it’s Rodney from Keystone Capital. Just wanted to…**

Ian felt a flush of warmth. He couldn’t wait to unwrap that surprise.

“Is there a problem?” Deb raised her chin. “With the gardener, I mean?”

Ian set the phone face-down on the rug. “Not unless ... is it legal in Illinois to fire someone for being cocky, dumb, and pigheaded? Or being the ugliest motherfucker I’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Debbie shrugged, hugged her robe around her. “Not if he does his job and stays the f out of our way.”

His sister paused as she went out the arched doorway that led to the kitchen. “Willa’s opening is next weekend.”

Ian knew Debbie was super-nervous about her new girlfriend and wanted to make the best impression possible. “You really want me to be there, huh?”

“I mean, Carl’s technically not old enough to drink. Lip’s too busy. I can’t stand there alone looking stupid while she shows off all her paintings.”

Ian like seeing his sister happy, liked needling her when she felt embarrassed. “Aw, Debs, you’re cute when you have a crush.”

“I really like her, okay? Come with me. Bring a friend, we’ll all go out for drinks after.”

“As long as Lip doesn’t need me, I’ll come.”

Debbie pumped her fist. “I’m leaving now before you have a chance to back out.” She jogged through the kitchen and out of sight.

Ian stacked another block with his niece and read the full text.

**Unknown [10:47 AM]: Hi, it’s Rodney from Keystone Capital. Just wanted to say I had fun last week. Would you be up for grabbing coffee sometime?**

He had to read the message three times before he believed it. 

Ian lifted Franny and spun her around the room, dropping her onto the leather sofa. He rolled with her and tickled her until they both collapsed with laughter. He’d been asked on an actual date. A tiny one, but still. He couldn’t wait to text back with an enthusiastic YES.

* * *

Mickey took a smoke break and sat on a concrete bench in the Gallagher’s courtyard. He jumped between being proud of himself and thinking he’d done something real fuckin’ stupid.

He dialed Iggy’s number and tapped his foot as he waited for his brother to pick it up.

“Yo.” Iggy’s voice sounded groggy. 

“I need everything you got on the Gallaghers.”

“You’ve got thumbs. Google that shit.” It was only eleven o’clock; Iggy was probably still in bed with his hook-up from the bar. 

“Everything’s about Lip. The whole damn world wants to kiss his ass. I need info on the other ones. The girl, the teenager, the kids.” The redhead with a habit of doing bad, bad things. “All I can get is ‘Phillip Gallagher lives in Chicago with four siblings.’ There’s plenty of dirt on him, none on them.”

Mickey didn’t even know the name of the person he planned to torment. That privileged prick who thought he could get away with anything, who treated the world like his playground.

Iggy muttered something Mickey couldn’t understand. Then, “Oh, really? Yeah, I’ll tell him. Hey, Mick. Kristin says she went to high school with the ginger.” Iggy paused while he listened for more info. “Says his name’s Ian. Was in ROTC or something. Kept to himself.”

The phone went quiet for a bit. Iggy laughed. “What? You gotta be ... okay, word on the street was he was bangin’ the guy from the Kash-n-Grab. He’s a total pole smoker.”

_Yeah, no shit._

Mickey squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Your fuck buddy know anything else? Something useful?”

“I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Mickey ended the call. Ian goddamn Gallagher. Dude lived in a palace but drove a car anyone could afford. Didn’t just walk-of-shame away from a raunchy night, he torched the whole thing to the ground. What a goddamn drama queen. Mickey needed to watch him closely, get all the ammo he could. Which bedroom window was his? Did he have an outside job or work at Limax Labs? What other extracurriculars did he engage in?

Mickey carefully folded his cigarette butt and tucked it into his pocket. He might be dirtying the client relationship, but he’d keep those grounds spotless.

* * *

Ian bounced across his lawn, anxious to return the lighter so it wasn’t weighing down his spirits, ready to do his final cleanse of everything related to last night.

He’d texted Rodney back and was waiting for a reply. Had he answered too soon? Did he sound desperate? Was it normal to be this confused?

He spotted the groundskeeper — Mickey — by the side of the gazebo in the side yard.

Mickey looped a long orange extension cord around his elbow, packing up his equipment for the day. The mid-afternoon sun cast shadows across his face from a grove of elm trees.

Ian stepped closer, studying the man’s movements, the way his biceps flexed as he worked. So much mayhem packed into a decent package. Ian handed over the Zippo quickly to stop from staring. “Here’s your lighter back.” 

Mickey slowed the spooling of the cord. He paused, still holding the loose end in his left hand. “Well, it looks like we have a problem.” He raised one eyebrow. “See, my hands are literally tied. You’re going to have to put it in my pocket.”

“You fuckin’ kidding me right now?”

Mickey tilted his head in defiance. “You set it in the grass, it might get lost. Can’t have that.”

Ian inched forward. One more step and he’d be close enough to deck the guy, wrap the extension cord around his throat and choke him out.

Why was this so strange? And why did he want to do exactly what Mickey said?

Ian closed the distance between them. His eyes locked onto Mickey’s. He hesitated. He reached forward to put the lighter into Mickey’s hip pocket.

“Nope.” Mickey’s deep voice caught Ian off guard. 

Ian pulled his hand back.

“Not there. My shirt.”

Ian studied Mickey’s light stubble, the creases in his forehead. He slowly widened the opening of the pocket below the Milkovich patch. He slid the Zippo into the fabric then pressed the lighter to the gardener’s chest, feeling hard muscle beneath his hand.

Mickey’s eyes darted down Ian’s face, over his lips, to his collarbone then quickly back up. 

Ian kept his palm in place but couldn’t decide if he was holding Mickey close or keeping him at bay. “You did a shitty job on the hedges.”

“No, I didn’t. That’s the cleanest trim I’ve done all year.”

Ian groused, attacking with what limited ammo he had on this guy. “They must have a good horticulture program in prison.”

“At least I pay for my crimes instead of making them disappear.” Mickey raised one dark eyebrows with contempt. “Have you ever faced a consequence? Or do you get pardons as a bonus when they hand out silver spoons?”

Ian wasn’t prepared for Mickey’s snappiness, his intelligence. People in Ian’s circles spoke with bland formality and false civility to put on a good show. Mickey’s bluntness made him insane but hungry to play the match unfolding between them.

Mickey narrowed his eyes. “You got nothing on me, Gallagher. Accept that so we can move on.” 

Ian lowered his hand. His pulse hammered. This was worse punishment than Mickey spilling his secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments! You are the best! 
> 
> View the image for this chapter [here!](https://suzy-queued.tumblr.com/post/646639415356194816/chapter-5-of-estate-of-blood-and-trust-is-up-i)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction story. I love these boys so much! I hope to post a couple times a week. 
> 
> I'm posting a picture for each chapter at: <https://suzy-queued.tumblr.com/>
> 
> Thanks for any comments and kudos!


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